"Where will your inheritance get you now?" leered the Count, as Veronica pulled his underpants over her head and Chopin played delightfully on

The fall of the Western Empire may not mean that much when you're 19 and vainglorious, but wait 'til the lights go out and you fail to notice the stains on the tweed undergarments. That's when the jig is up

Slung across the slackened line, the jowled face of Mrs. O'Shea glared at the fruitless wasteland that her Ireland had become. Like so many before her, the slightly-soiled jockettes, brasseries and assorted underwear failed to impress

[below lines only on 2021 version]

The light filled the room, awash with all the scents of the garden, and in the new and perfumed darkness the music played. In his taut jockettes, the young boy created those stains that are the marks of every good man

Across the bridge of her nose, Julia, young and depressed, watched from the corner of her garden as Mrs. Hawthorn chased after chickens to kill and roast for the family, loving the muttered approval from their tired and unassuming faces. In the corner of Julia's eye, the shards of undergarments lay caught in the branches

He gazed as Astrid leaned slowly back onto the velveteen couch, and wondered (as always) whether this would be the finish. "Where have the summer days gone?" said the spoilt beauty with her usual melodrama, but her glance away and out the misty window left him with massive internal damage and the permanent memory of her underpants curdling on her hips